


Old Drama, New Chances

by Scrunchles



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cremisius "Krem" Aclassi/Lace Harding - Freeform, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, High School Reunion, M/M, past bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22272916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunchles/pseuds/Scrunchles
Summary: The Iron Bull has mixed feelings about his 20th reunion, but Krem insists on him going.  It goes alright, he gets drunk, talks to people, the usual reunion things-- until he tries to make moves on his high school crush and gets a rude awakening.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 8
Kudos: 99
Collections: The Collected Fanfics for the Adoribull Reverse Bang 2019





	Old Drama, New Chances

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Old Drama, New Chances](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/550855) by HubbaBubba. 
  * Inspired by [Old Drama New Chances](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22270051) by [roshytsunami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roshytsunami/pseuds/roshytsunami). 



> This was written for the 2019 Adoribull Reverse Bang! Go appreciate everyone's great efforts in the collection!
> 
> This was so much fun, thank you Mozz for organizing it!

All of the noise crammed into the gym is oppressive. The old music fights with the people trying to talk and the Iron Bull struggles to pull the sticky backing off of his name tag.  _ Hissrad _ . He hasn’t gone by that name in years, and he took the liberty of writing “THE IRON BULL” in blocky capital letters across the top. Leliana pouted at him as he did it—perfectionist that she is—but he smoothed it out with a grin, a wink and a comment on her shoes. Some things never change.

He hadn’t really wanted to come to this. His past was his past and he’d rather just move forward—or, at least, that’s what he tells himself—but ever since his discharge from the military, he’s been thinking about it more than he’d like to admit. High school is the last time he remembers excelling. Sports, easy academics and he was friends with everyone because the politics were simple and straightforward for him. 

“Chief!” he hears the gruff call over the crowded gym and smiles as he turns to see Krem bobbing toward him through the crowded gym floor. “Was starting to get worried you wouldn’t come!” he says as he makes it to the Iron Bull’s side. 

“You know I can’t resist free drinks and embarrassing stories,” the Iron Bull points out with a smirk.

He notices Krem’s name tag says his name correctly and jabs his finger at it. “They got your name right,” he points out.

“That’s because Krem responded to my email with more than an emoji!” Leliana says as she continues to hand out name tags and raffle tickets.

The Iron Bull laughs and finally notices that there is a hand clutched in Krem’s and a very small someone following him through the crowd. “Harding, right?” he asks, glancing at her name tag to confirm. Though he’s uncannily good with names, it’s been ten years. She was part of the athletic crowd, so he isn’t sure he’s ever heard her first name.  _ Lace _ . Cute. Delicate absolutely does not reflect the former powerlifter at all, but she’s adorable nonetheless. Freckles cascade across her face and her bright eyes look hazel in the dim light of the gym. Krem can’t do better, honestly.

“That’s me!” Harding says with a smile. “And of course I remember you, you destroyed on the football field! And wrestling. Honestly you were a powerhouse wherever you went, I was surprised when you didn’t go into collegiate,” she admits.

The Iron Bull snorts and shrugs. “At the time, Qunari weren’t really welcome,” he reminds her. 

“Oh!” she blushes and nods. “I remember that now, sorry—“

The Iron Bull pats her shoulder with a kind smile. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “So what have you two been up to? catching up?” he wiggles his brows at Krem who punches the Iron Bull’s shoulder and rolls his eyes. 

“We’ve been talking while I wait for your tardy ass. Could you have picked a more ridiculous shirt, by the way? Gold on fushia? It’s not even buttoned, you look like a moderately fancy bum.”

The Iron Bull laughs loudly and claps Krem on the shoulder. Krem’s ribbing allows him to relax a bit and he takes a deep breath as he looks over the heads of all present to find the bar set up in a corner where the equipment room doors are. “Critique my wardrobe later, Krem de la crème,” he says. “There’s an open bar with my name on it—I’ll reconnect with you after a few shots.”

“Sure thing,” Krem says. Harding eagerly drags him toward the dance floor as a late 90s bop starts playing on the overhead speakers and he turns his attention onto her back with a smitten grin. 

The Iron Bull heads for the bar and holds up two fingers for two shots. “Whatever you have too much of,” he says.

The bartender pours the Iron Bull two shots of a sickly sweet liquor with a spicy kick at the end. He laughs and sucks in a sharp breath as the back of his tongue burns. “No wonder you have too much,” he says. “I’ll just take a beer after that.”

The Iron Bull drinks half of his beer to chase the taste of the liquor away and then turns to look out at the sea of people. He’s used to feeling an otherness in his adult life that he doesn’t remember feeling in high school. He always felt like he was a part of something, one of the team, some who accepted and was accepted by everyone. He finishes his beer and gets another before he hears a familiar accent but not a familiar voice. It’s a bit deeper and more self assured and it makes his stomach swim and his heart throb painfully hard and fast all at the same time. 

Damn, he still has it  _ so bad _ for Dorian Pavus. He looks around to pinpoint the man and when he sees him, he can’t help but stare. His hair is short and perfectly coiffed, his skin a healthy tan and completely clear of youthful acne. He has an impeccably groomed moustache that would look silly on any other man, but on Dorian— it suits him. The Iron Bull isn’t sure that anything  _ wouldn’t  _ suit him. He’s grown up from a cute kid into a handsome man and the Iron Bull is twenty years older and no longer a child of the Qun. 

The Iron Bull drains the rest of his beer and heads over to work his magic. “Fancy meeting you here,” he says, resting a hand on Dorian’s back and leaning down to speak near his ear so that he can be heard. The woman Dorian is talking to smiles a little, though it’s not a greeting, more of a bemusement that feels almost hostile.

Dorian leans into the hand and chuckles softly as he turns— and then his brows raise when he sees the Iron Bull. “Oh. Hissrad, was it?” he asks.

The Iron Bull isn’t thrown off by Dorian’s reaction. It’s clearly affected, but the Iron Bull is nothing if not easy going. Besides, he likes games as much as the next former spy. He smiles and draws his hand away. “Yeah. Long time no see, Dorian. How have you been?”

“Very well,” he replies, taking in the Iron Bull. Dorian’s eyes flick across his face, resting briefly over his eyepatch before he gets to the Iron Bull’s attire and visibly winces. “Maker’s breath, what are you  _ wearing _ ?” he asks. 

The Iron Bull laughs and winks at Dorian. “I have a large collection of attractive shirts. They’re a favorite of all of my friends.”

“Mhm, I’m sure that’s what they tell you,” Dorian replies doubtfully. 

The Iron Bull shrugs and plucks at the unbuttoned front of his shirt. “Not my fault they’re close minded fashion-wise.”

“I’ll find you in a bit, darling,” Dorian tells—Vivienne? the Iron Bull is almost certain that’s her name. They had never been friends in school that he remembers but they seem pretty thick now. The Iron Bull’s heart falls a little, but he hides it behind a flirtatious smirk. 

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks. “I’d love to catch up, even if it is just you criticizing my fashion sense.”

Dorian’s lips curl into a smile that’s a little too sweet, but the Iron Bull presses forward, ignoring his instinct for the sake of a possible reconnection. “I would appreciate a refill on punch,” he says, offering the Iron Bull his empty cup.

The Iron Bull heads back toward the bar and ladles a helping of an orange punch complete with bits of fruit. He returns to Dorian and holds out the cup. “So, what have you been up to? I know you went—“

Dorian takes the punch and throws it onto the Iron Bull’s nearly-clean white shirt, cutting him off. It’s cold and smells of fruit and liquor. Not the worst thing the Iron Bull has had thrown at him, but certainly one of the less warranted—in his opinion, anyway.

“What the fuck?” the Iron Bull asks, holding up his hands placatingly. 

Dorian’s faux sweetness completely disappears and he scowls at the Iron Bull with distaste. Ouch. That hurts like a punch to the gut. Dorian motions with the empty cup in his hand and says, “what? I thought you  _ liked fruit _ ?” like it’s supposed to mean something significant.

The Iron Bull furrows his brows and grabs some napkins off of a nearby table to sop at the drink but there’s no way that it’s not going to stain. “What are you talking about?”

Dorian rolls his eyes and then steps in close. The Iron Bull notices that he’s careful not to let their shirts touch and that his looks quality from the fabric to the stitching of the collar and painstakingly clean. “Leave me alone,” Dorian says firmly. “I’m not the same boy.”

“Clearly,” the Iron Bull says, shrugging his outer shirt off and then tugging his t-shirt up and off. 

Dorian’s brows furrow and he scoffs. “Shameless as ever,” he says with a frown before stepping back. 

“I have nothing to be ashamed of,” the Iron Bull says simply, his stomach pinching with disappointment as he pulls his outer shirt back on and buttons it up. The first time he sees his high school crush in twenty years and he’s turned into a real dick. What a letdown. He distracts himself by winking at the gaggle of former cheerleaders nearby whose gaze was drawn by the dramatic interaction. They giggle and one with brown hair winks back before her wife walks over and wraps her arm firmly around her drunk spouse with a glare.

Oh well, he can still get lucky before he heads out tomorrow morning. 

Dorian turns away and the Iron Bull does the same, his boots squeaking on the wet gym floor as he heads over to talk to the other women. Bridge burned, good to know. The Iron Bull is used to moving on. He slings his damp white shirt over his shoulder and lets the former cheerleaders create their own conversation of who went to what college and what they moved on to do. They’re all in various stages of inebriation and the Iron Bull is trying to gauge the dynamic between the more sober ones, figuring he might be able to entertain more than one if they’re up for it. Maybe they have adventurous husbands— though the wife who quickly claimed her spouse doesn’t seem to appreciate his coming over and keeps trying to extricate the giggling, blasted brunette from her blonde posse.

Someone grabs his white shirt and he allows it, mostly just holding it not to litter at this point. “What the hell happened to you, Chief?” Krem asks. “Grab the wrong ass?”

“Cremisius!” one of the women says warmly.

He looks thrown off by the sudden recognition and the Iron Bull uses the moment to snag his shirt back. “Hey, Anora,” Krem says, once he’s seen past twenty years of maturity. “Just ‘Krem,’ if you will,” he mentions.

The Iron Bull forces a grin and tosses his shirt over the back of one of the chairs near them, happy to let Krem divert Anora and the others’ attention. He can tell by the tanline on her finger she’s not going to be an honest lay and he’s not really into angry husbands, especially if she ended up marrying the guy she dated in high school.

Harding touches the Iron Bull’s arm and smiles at him when he looks down at her. “Penny for your thoughts?” she asks.

The Iron Bull slaps Krem’s back and then steps away from the gaggle of clustering women around Krem. He can handle himself, and it sounds like most of them are telling him how handsome he looks and how the military look suits him.

“Dorian threw his drink on me,” the Iron Bull says as they break from the crowds, finally letting a little sadness enter his voice.

Harding nods like it makes sense and the Iron Bull furrows his brows. “What?” he asks. 

“You were kind of an ass to him in high school,” Harding says it like it’s a reminder and not shocking news. She takes in the Iron Bull’s raised brow and downturned lips and laughs uncertainly. “Uhm… you used to play keep away from him,” she reminds him, seeming to really be thinking of what she can. “Krem, come help me,” she says.

Krem eagerly jumps away from the cluster that briefly trapped him and puts the Iron Bull between himself and the inordinate amount of attention. “Yes?” he asks, scooping up Harding’s hand like it’s a lifeline.

“Bull used to be a bit of a… well… a  _ bully _ toward Dorian, didn’t he?” she asks.

Krem opens his mouth and lets out an uncertain noise. His eyes turn up to look at the Iron Bull and he shrugs a little. 

“Krem!” the Iron Bull says, punching his shoulder. 

“Chief, I told you to ease up, but you wouldn’t listen,” he says defensively. 

“Fuck!” he growls rubbing the back of his neck and glancing around the room. He doesn’t see Dorian but he does see Vivienne. “I was trying to be friendly!” he says. “Friends tease each other,” he says insistently, motioning between himself and Krem.

Krem grabs the Iron Bull’s arm and pats his bicep sympathetically once he gives him his attention. “You should probably give both of you some time to calm down,” he suggests. “Grab another beer and remember it’s been twenty years.”

The Iron Bull nods. “Yeah, so it shouldn’t matter anymore, right?” he asks.

Krem and Harding share a look that clearly says “no.”

The Iron Bull groans and moves to sit heavily in one of the cheap fold out chairs. It creaks and nearly gives beneath his weight, but ends up holding out. 

Twenty years to internalize and simmer perceived bullying into hatred… fuck, he should have shown up to graduation or their ten year, should have just told Dorian he liked him all those years ago—but Hissrad didn’t know how to talk about emotions or even that what he was feeling was a normal attraction, really. 

The Qun doesn’t teach about the birds and the bees, just friends and Tammassrans and they don’t mix. The Iron Bull rubs his face with his hands and growls before standing and heading back toward the bar for another beer. Fuck growing up in a cult.

He doesn’t see Dorian again, but he sees the whole football team among semi-familiar faces. Some of them really let everything go after graduation. He’s glad that he has Krem around to keep him moving—his softened gut isn’t anywhere near Blackwall’s paunch.

By the end of the night, the Iron Bull is socially exhausted and ready to fuck off back to his motel room. He keeps trying to make it to the door, but he gets stopped and walked back to the bar three times. It’s like a nightmare where he keeps reliving the same series of events over and over again. 

Leliana eventually gets up on the mini stage that the DJ has been mixing from and calls the raffle. “A dinner to reconnect old friends.” The Iron Bull doesn’t even remember where he put his ticket, but everyone apparently has the first three numbers of the first ticket she calls. 

He idly checks his pockets for the ticket as she calls out the last three numbers. silence falls in the gym briefly before a surprised chuckle rises and Dorian steps forward. The Iron Bull’s fingers graze against the rough edge of torn perforation and he grabs the ticket just as the first three numbers of the second ticket are called out. The gym cheers cheekily again when she pauses, then she slowly reads the last three numbers, prompting groans from people who slowly realize that they now have no chance of a free meal with an old classmate.

The Iron Bull looks down at the ticket, suspecting that he holds the lucky one and he smirks as he steps forward amid people tossing their tickets and returning to their conversations and drinks. He approaches the stage and sees Dorian’s shoulders fall as he realizes that the Iron Bull will be his date.

The Iron Bull lets it roll off his back and steps up onto the stage with a smile. He hands Leliana his ticket and she says that they will get more details about the dinner via email tonight. The Iron Bull looks out over his former classmates and smiles despite his rising melancholy during the night. He sees Krem standing with Harding and then turns back around to see to Dorian— but he’s gone. The Iron Bull sighs and hops down. Well if the date doesn’t go well, at the very least he’ll be able to talk to Dorian; maybe clear up the mess he made years ago.

The Iron Bull takes a few more shots, then heads into the hallways to find a bathroom, as there’s a long line to the locker room ones. He hums softly as he walks, his mood fluctuating between the persistent gray that has plagued him all night and the precipitous glee of being buzzed. 

He passes by the library, then stops when he realizes that someone is sitting at one of the tables in an eerily familiar way. The set up of the room hasn’t changed at all since they went to school here, and Dorian would always sit in the same chair at the same table when he was in the library with his legs kicked up on the chair beside him just so. 

The Iron Bull pushes the door open and slips inside, though he’s incapable of being quiet about it. When he’s drunk he forgets the space that his horns take up and so there’s a loud banging as the closing door clips his horns twice as he enters.

Dorian looks up from the text he had found and sighs before closing the book.

“Keep reading,” the Iron Bull says, waving his hand. “I just came here to… also read,” he says as he starts looking at the nearest bookshelf.

“Those are all books on tape,” Dorian says after a few minutes of watching him squint at titles and wonder why all the books were so small and their sizes so uniform.

“They still have those?” the Iron Bull asks incredulously.

“Public school funding hardly leaves room for being picky,” Dorian points out.

The Iron Bull grunts and turns away from the shelf. “I didn’t actually come here to read,” he says.

“Oh? And here I believed you,” Dorian says, his sarcasm biting even with the Iron Bull’s inebriation. 

“Dorian, can we talk?” he asks.

“We don’t have to,” Dorian assures him. “We’re two men who went to the same school. We walked the same halls and used the same classrooms but that’s all we had in common. You made my life hell—you teased me for being gay—you made me—“

“Whoa, whoa, when did I tease you for being gay?” the Iron Bull asks. He’ll admit he took Dorian’s books and nudged him in the halls and enjoyed seeing him distressed because it was fucking  _ adorable _ and he always,  _ always  _ snapped back like a particularly satisfying firecracker, but the Iron Bull isn’t and never has been homophobic—well, as far as he can remember, and judging from how tonight has gone, maybe he’s fucked up more than he remembers.

Dorian scoffs and stands with the book. “You said that you like fruit,” Dorian says. 

The Iron Bull frowns. “I do, though,” he says.

Dorian rolls his eyes. “It was right after your jock friends teased me for asking out... ah, that one art kid,” he says, frowning a little.

The Iron Bull hums. “Cole?” he asks. He has a particular knack for people’s names and faces and he finds a sallow, sad blonde face with charcoal stained fingertips in his memory of the outer ring of Dorian’s limited social circle.

Dorian snaps his fingers and nods. “Yes! Cole, of course.”

“Yeah, I was flirting with you,” the Iron Bull states flatly. By this point in his journey of radical truth, he’s certain that any interactions with Dorian were spurred by him not knowing how to communicate his crush.

“ _ Flirting? _ ” Dorian scoffs.

“That’s what I said.”

Dorian huffs and sputters, getting out a word or two every once in a while and still clutching the book he had been reading. “I mean… that’s  _ ridiculous _ ,” Dorian finally settles on.

“Why is that?” the Iron Bull asks. Dorian was cute when he was a kid and he has only become more attractive with age—he’s downright hot now with his confidence slipping and his face half shadowed in the dim lighting of the single fluorescent in the hall he had been using to read.

Dorian purses his lips and crosses his arms. “You are one of many who made my life hell when we were in high school,” he says. “I would rather not relive the experience in adulthood.”

The Iron Bull opens his mouth, but Dorian cuts him off.

“You may give your raffle ticket to one of your friends—Lace or that young man you came in with, he’s cute enough,” Dorian tells him. “If you show up at the restaurant, however, I  _ will _ leave.” With that last statement, Dorian grabs his jacket and makes a crisp turn to leave the library, taking the book with him. 

The Iron Bull slumps into one of the chairs at the table and sighs heavily. He nearly falls asleep in the chair, but Krem and Harding find him as the party ends and Krem lends him a shoulder to get to the door. It’s much appreciated, however little it actually helps with their several feet of height difference.

Krem drives them back to their hotel and the Iron Bull is so miserable that he doesn’t even have the urge to tease Krem about Harding riding with them. Once he’s alone in his room, the Iron Bull lays on his bed, still fully clothed and stares at his phone—more specifically, the email he had received with the address and time for their dinner. 

_ Your reservation is for tomorrow night at 6PM at Orlesian Fates please be on time and limit yourselves to two bottles of wine, one appetizer, two entrees, two main courses and one dessert. _

_ Enjoy and please take at least one picture for our class newsletter! _

The Iron Bull wakes up the next morning with a dry mouth and his phone stuck to his cheek. He peels it off and sees a new email message from Josephine. 

It’s just a smiley face and he scrolls down to see what caused it— 

  1. _chhhhhhhhhjjjnbbbbvvvvbbbbnnnnbbbnjiiknnjjbjkkkiiiiiookkkknnnnkknnnnn_



The Iron Bull rubs his cheek and replies with a sigh.

_ Sorry fell asleep with my phone _ .

He didn’t drink so much last night that he has a headache, but the previous night comes back to him in broken and sometimes jagged pieces. Much of it gets chronology and context as he muses in the shower before he dresses and knocks on the door between his and Krem’s rooms. 

Harding opens the door in the same clothes she wore the previous night. Her hair is neatly pulled into a bun and she looks like she had a restful night.

“Krem!” the Iron Bull says, disapproval clear in his voice. “I taught you better than this.” He motions to Harding’s perfect night-after poise. She snorts and raises her brow.

“Rack off, chief,” Krem replies, blushing in spite of his tough act. 

The Iron Bull smirks and pinches Krem’s cheek. “Let’s go get breakfast and then shop around,” he says. “My treat.”

Krem makes an amused noise and grabs his boots. Harding does as well and they all head out to the Iron Bull’s truck. “What’s the occasion, chief?”

“I have a date tonight,” the Iron Bull says casually. Dorian’s warning was clear, but the Iron Bull has never been one to stand down from a fight. If Dorian didn’t want to believe that he was a good man with good intentions, that was on him, but the Iron Bull didn’t give up free fancy food for anyone.

——- 

The Iron Bull arrives at Orlesian Fates dressed in the only white, collared shirt he has ever owned and will ever own as well as decently new jeans. He considered wearing just another hawaiian shirt, but as he arrives, he realizes that he would have been turned away at the door. There isn’t enough gold embroidery and ornate designs in his repertoire to pull off wearing anything but a long sleeve button up and tie to this place. Besides, Dorian seemed to object to it last night and he’s already pushing his luck by showing up in the first place. Best not to be too petulant on a first date.

He arrives exactly on time and is escorted up a level and out onto the veranda where there’s a gorgeous view of the lake and the modest skyline that the business district boasts. All in all, the Iron Bull isn’t usually into fancy bullshit like this, but he has to admit that it’s nice.

The Iron Bull waits for twenty minutes, sitting alone admiring the skyline and alternating between wine and water for the sake of being able to argue properly with Dorian when he shows up. 

If he shows up.

After half an hour, but before fifteen ‘til, Dorian strides through the veranda door. Slim fitting and full of buckles and bobs, the Iron Bull is certain that whatever he’s wearing is the height of fashion in Tevinter or Orlais, but in this trying-too-hard restaurant in this mediocre Ferelden town, he looks as much like he doesn’t belong as he did when they were kids.

The Iron Bull finds the irony in his thoughts a little too close to home, and he raises his glass to Dorian when he sets his eyes on him and his neutral expression becomes a frown. 

The Iron Bull smirks at him and smooths his nice white shirt down.

Dorian rolls his eyes and smiles a bit— _ just _ a bit— before he continues forward to sit across from the Iron Bull.

“Didn’t know we had a view like this,” the Iron Bull comments.

“We  _ didn’t _ ,” Dorian replies, acid on the back of his tongue as he sits. “The town has grown a lot in the last twenty years.”

The Iron Bull hums and pours Dorian a glass of white wine. “Made sure both bottles were white so you couldn’t ruin my shirt again,” he says, noting the mild disappointment in the tilt of Dorian’s eyebrows.

“Clever,” Dorian comments before taking the glass and tossing it on the Iron Bull anyway.

People gasp around them and the Iron Bull takes a deep breath to keep his temper in check. He licks wine from his lips and loosens his tie so that it doesn’t just collect at his neck, then pours Dorian another glass. “At this point, I feel like you just enjoy throwing drinks on me.”

“It’s cathartic at the very least.” Dorian studies the Iron Bull, his eyes darting around his craggy face, then they seem to follow a drop of wine down his neck and hesitate at his loosened tie. “Who tied that for you?” he asks.

“Harding,” the Iron Bull replies, pulling it free and tucking the strip of fabric in his pocket before undoing a few buttons and relaxing. He had tried, and now Dorian had shown him how he repays effort.

“She’s quite good at knots,” he says.

“Krem and I don’t have much use for anything fancier than a clip on,” the Iron Bull replies.

Dorian picks up his glass and watches the chilled wine slosh around his glass. For a moment, the Iron Bull thinks he might throw it again, but instead, Dorian takes a sip. “At the very least, you have good taste in wine.”

“Krem says I like it too dry.”

Dorian laughs and settles back in his seat with the glass in his hand. “When you grow up in my family, you gain a taste for dryness.”

The Iron Bull hums and it seems that their idle chatter has soothed the rest of the veranda back into their own lives now that they aren’t acting like a spectacle. “Have you eaten here before?”

Dorian takes the prompt to pick up a menu and he begins looking over the appetizer portion. “No, I can’t really afford to on a teacher’s salary,” he says.

“That’s surprising,” the Iron Bull admits. 

“I know, you would have thought that I would go into government or private schools at the very least, but  _ no _ ...” Dorian spreads his hands and shrugs. “Here I am in Ferelden, teaching history and science to freshmen at the same school I graduated from.”

The Iron Bull snorts and makes an appropriately disgusted face. Dorian laughs before looking back down at the menu. If he allows Dorian to lead the conversation, he’ll be safe enough. His time as a spy taught him that no matter how much someone loathes you, they will happily talk about themselves at length with relatively few leading questions.

“Do you have any food allergens or preferences?” Dorian asks. 

“None,” the Iron Bull confirms. 

“Alright.” Dorian snaps the menu closed and lifts two fingers with several rings each to signal the waiter. 

He’s bloomed since high school. Where he was once nearly timid with occasional snarky outbursts, Dorian is now a man who forges forward with confidence and orders in perfect Orlesian from a waiter who has never set foot outside of Ferelden.

It’s over the top. It’s ridiculously pompous. It’s  _ sexy _ .

The Iron Bull doesn’t realize that he’s sat forward and watching Dorian with rapt attention until the other man pauses in sipping his wine and raises a brow at him. “What?”

The Iron Bull shrugs and sits back again. “Nothing, just glad one of us knows how to pronounce  _ bourguignonne _ ,” he says, making sure to butcher it just a little so that Dorian feels superior. 

Dorian’s smile droops a little and he leans forward. “Hissrad,” he says very seriously. “Are you pandering to me?”

The Iron Bull smirks and shrugs. “Trying to,” he admits, not used to being caught out. “What gave me away?”

“You didn’t pronounce the second g,” Dorian points out. 

“ _ Zut, _ ” the Iron Bull curses casually.

“I do remember you being good at languages,” Dorian admits.

“Oh, so I wasn’t just a bully?” he asks, a bit more belligerently than he intends.

“Is anyone just anything?” Dorian points out, setting his empty glass down. The Iron Bull takes the hint and refills it for him. “But no, you weren’t just a bully. You were a popular, smart boy with a menagerie of friends who all got their jollies kicking others when they were already just trying to get by in a world not fit for them.”

The Iron Bull hums. “That’s… descriptive.”

“Just wait until I’ve had more wine,” Dorian promises as the appetizer arrives. Escargot in a sauce of butter, parsley and brandy. 

The Iron Bull waits for Dorian to dig in first, refilling his own wine glass and motioning for another bottle. “Should I risk switching to red?” the Iron Bull asks as the waiter approaches.

“That’s probably the only white shirt you own,” Dorian says in a rather sad tone. “I’ll spare it. Show me what else you know about wine and I might forgive you yet.”

The Iron Bull orders a bottle of young Tevinter port and fresh glasses for them. He and Dorian pick through the escargot, talking about their experiences with Orlais. Dorian went to college there and then transferred back home to Tevinter when one of his professors offered him a TA position at his new teaching post. The Iron Bull carefully fudges some details surrounding a mission he had and calls it a vacation, exploring museums and learning the nuances of dialects via immersion.

“ _ You _ like art?” Dorian asks suspiciously.

“Even an animal can appreciate  _ Dawn Lotus _ ,” the Iron Bull points out.

Dorian laughs dryly and sighs. “Sorry, I… keep underestimating you,” he admits.

“Lots of people do,” the Iron Bull assures him. “I like it that way, it gives me the upper hand.”

Dorian hums and picks the menu back up.

“Do you want to order for both of us?” the Iron Bull offers. 

“We are not a couple nor am I your parent,” Dorian quips sternly.

The Iron Bull smirks. “Sure,” he agrees and finally opens his own menu. The waiter comes with their wine and glasses and takes their next order. The Iron Bull orders a salad for his entree and the biggest steak on the menu for his main course. He sees Dorian roll his eyes and smirks. “What?”

“How typical for a man such as yourself to get a gigantic piece of meat,” Dorian comments.

“Such as myself?” the Iron Bull asks, raising his eyebrow. 

Dorian blushes a little and motions with his hand, indicating the Iron Bull’s everything. “You know, your…  _ build. _ ”

“Are you calling me fat?” the Iron Bull asks with mock affront in his voice.

“What?  _ No _ , I’m merely—“

“Listen, Dorian, just because I teased you when we were kids doesn’t mean I’ll just sit here and be your punching bag now,” the Iron Bull says, taking the joke a tad too far and realizing that he’s falling into old habits again. Oops.

Dorian looks beside himself that his words have been twisted and the Iron Bull smiles pointedly at him and reaches across to touch his fidgeting hand. “Dorian, I’m  _ joking _ ,” he assures him.

Dorian pulls his hand away and scowls. “It’s  _ not _ funny,” he says.

The Iron Bull chuckles and replies, “it kind of is.”

Dorian maintains his scowl for barely another thirty seconds before he relaxes and scoffs. “Fine,” he admits. “It’s a little funny. We both know that you aren’t fat, after all.”

The Iron Bull smirks and pours the port for them both. “We do?” he asks, wondering if the glasses of wine are finally catching up to Dorian. He’s never quite sure how human tolerance works, they’re either impregnable vaults or open books two glasses in.

Dorian waves his hand at the Iron Bull’s everything again and huffs. “Well, we and the whole class,” he points out. “Not many forty-year-olds strip in the middle of a gymnasium full of former peers.”

The Iron Bull shrugs. “Well, would you say I have anything to hide?”

Dorian chokes on his port and quickly clears his throat several times. “Only as much as the rest of us,” Dorian finally gets out.

The Iron Bull smirks and leans forward on the table, though he’s careful not to flip it with his weight. “Sure,” he agrees, picking up the port bottle and refilling Dorian’s wine as well as his own.

They settle into a surprisingly agreeable silence and the Iron Bull thinks this is actually going quite well. When the entrees come, the Iron Bull’s is wrong and rather than let him live with it, Dorian forces the issue and has it remade. Despite the hassle it is for the waiter, Dorian’s eagerness to take charge of the situation is admirable and the Iron Bull attributes it to the slight slur in his words—he’s probably just acting on instinct, doing what he would for any meal that came out wrong. 

“Thanks,” the Iron Bull says once his botched entree is taken—he certainly hadn’t ordered druffalo tongue. 

“There are few things which I object to when it comes to Orlesian cuisine, but tongue and tripe are on that short list,” Dorian informs him, waving off his thanks. “I mostly had them take it back for my own enjoyment of this meal.”

That brings a smile to the Iron Bull’s lips. “Tripe just sounds bad, but if you get just the right—“

“No,” Dorian says firmly, holding up his hand to give a more physical representation of his rejection. “Tripe is not on my menu. Ever. Nor anyone I dine with. Anyone who I dine with… whom?” Dorian frowns and then picks his wine back up, though he doesn’t necessarily need it. “Anyway. No tongue.”

The Iron Bull sighs. “And here I was getting my hopes up.” Another joke. Kind of. 

Dorian takes a few seconds of sipping his port for it to click and he chortles in response. “No, oh no, I’m still very mad at you, you… you mammoth.”

“Ouch,” the Iron Bull says. His salad finally comes—correct and delicious, and a perfect distraction from his actual disappointment. He had been hoping that Dorian would maybe cross into his court at some point during the evening, but maybe it was too much to hope for.

Dorian talks about his studies, about teaching in the same classroom he used to learn in, about fashion and models—which Vivienne had become to pay for college and then hit the fashion industry by storm after her graduation and Dorian is  _ so proud of her _ . The Iron Bull takes what he cares about from the fairly one-sidesd conversation—Dorian is actually speaking to him, Dorian is actually speaking to him in a friendly fashion, Dorian is actually pretty drunk at this point but the Iron Bull pours him another and lets him keep going. He’ll make sure he limits his poor decision making and gets him home safe.

By the time dessert comes around, Dorian is relaxing back with a brandy the Iron Bull ordered both of them and he shuffles the desert card away from himself. “Go on, pick a desert,” Dorian says. “I’m far too full, I couldn’t fit another bite.”

The Iron Bull can always fit another bite, so he leans forward to take the card and looks for something complementary to the brandy. A simple  _ crème au caramel _ should do the trick.

The Iron Bull orders and sees Dorian slow down a bit on his brandy. “Have you ever had caramel with brandy?” the Iron Bull asks casually.

“I typically don’t desert with my drinks,” Dorian replies, though he sets his glass down in a very deliberate fashion. 

The Iron Bull chuckles and does the same in solidarity. When the desert comes, the Iron Bull sits forward and slides one of the two spoons around to Dorian’s side of the plate.

“Give it a try,” the Iron Bull prompts.

Dorian sighs and leans forward with a soft burp and a tight, “excuse me.” He carefully cuts a spoonful of the  _ crème au caramel  _ away and eats it before following it with a sip of brandy. “Oh.”

The Iron Bull laughs. “I get that reaction on most of my dates,” he boasts.

Dorian laughs and kicks him lightly beneath the table. “This is  _ not _ a date,” Dorian insists.

“M _ hm _ ,” the Iron Bull hums, but he makes certain that his inflection shows how little he believes Dorian. 

“It’s not!” Dorian scoffs.

But the waiters around them are putting chairs up on tables and the Iron Bull takes his time slowly scooping up a bite of  _ crème au caramel _ as he waits for Dorian to realize just how late it is.

“How long have we been here?” Dorian asks. 

“Around four hours,” the Iron Bull says casually. 

Dorian sets his spoon down and stands shakily. “I have to— uh…” he wavers and then slumps back into his chair. “Fuck, I have to teach tomorrow,” he says. 

The Iron Bull takes another bite and then tosses back the rest of his brandy. “Here, I’ll drive you home,” the Iron Bull offers, holding his hand out for Dorian’s arm.

“I will need to get to work in the morning,” Dorian points out.

The Iron Bull shrugs. “I can drive you home in your car.”

“I don’t think you can  _ fit _ in my car,” Dorian says with a scoff, though he isn’t fighting the Iron Bull’s hand carefully guiding him up out of his seat. 

“Want me to spend the night and drive you tomorrow?” the Iron Bull suggests, folding a crisp bill under his brandy glass to cover their additional tab and the tip.

“Hm…” Dorian seems like he’s actually considering it as he slumps against the Iron Bull’s chest and allows himself to be directed toward the stairs. They make it down in one piece and the Iron Bull waits for Dorian to choose whose car they’re getting into. 

He takes a few steps toward the parking on the right of the building before he pauses and looks up at the Iron Bull. “You will sleep on the couch and remain fully clothed in my apartment,” he says sternly.

The Iron Bull nods. That seems reasonable. 

“There will be  _ no pranks _ .”

“No shenanigans,” the Iron Bull confirms, waiting for Dorian to choose his ride.

“Where is your vehicle?” he asks, relaxing in the Iron Bull’s grip.

The Iron Bull carefully turns him in the direction of his truck and walks them over to it. He helps him into the passenger seat and gets the seatbelt across his chest before letting him slump onto the center console, his elbow supporting him. “Okay?” he asks.

Dorian nods and pats the arm across his lap which had buckled him in.

The Iron Bull walks around to the driver side and gets in. He starts the truck and gets out his phone. “Address?” he asks.

Dorian mumbles numbers and words and through some creative googling and assumptions, the Iron Bull gets what is probably the right address. Once he has it plugged in, they set off and the Iron Bull carefully pushes Dorian back upright when he slides into an uncomfortable position.

“Dorian,” the Iron Bull says, gently nudging his passenger awake when they arrive at their probable destination. 

Dorian sits up and looks around blearily. “Ah, my home,” he says, stretching. “How long was I out?” he asks.

“Maybe ten minutes,” the Iron Bull says, trying not to sound as amused as he is.

“Oh. Good.” Dorian fumbles the seatbelt off and the Iron Bull hurries to get out of the truck before Dorian ends up walking face first into the pavement. He catches him as he slips out of the truck and Dorian grasps his shoulders firmly. “Maker give me strength,” Dorian says, regaining his feet and digging around for his keys. 

The Iron Bull chuckles and supports Dorian up to his door. Once it’s open, he helps Dorian in and waits on directions to his room. The first thing Dorian does is fumble his shoes off without untying them.

The second thing Dorian does is point toward the hallway across the living room as he leans into the Iron Bull’s shoulder heavily. The Iron Bull totes Dorian toward the hall and through the door he indicates. He gently lays him down on the bed and then watches as Dorian immediately starts wiggling around to find a comfortable position. 

_ Cute _ . 

On Dorian’s bedside table, Iron Bull puts a glass of water and some pain killers. He keeps extras in his glove box for his knee and he takes a couple to ease his morning aches before kicking his boots off and stretching out on the couch. 

The Iron Bull barely figures out a comfortable position for his horns before he falls into a deep sleep. 

——

The Iron Bull wakes up to the smell of coffee and his phone buzzing against his hip. He shifts and knocks over a lamp—he can tell what it is without even seeing it, it’s such a common occurrence. Once he’s sat up, the Iron Bull slumps his cheek onto the back of the couch and digs his phone out.

“Yeah, Krem?”

“ _ I take it your date went well? _ ” Krem asks, his tone playful and a soft giggle in the background. 

“Not as good as your last two,” the Iron Bull says, rubbing his knee ruefully and gritting his teeth against the ache.

“Coffee?” Dorian asks from the kitchen.

“Black,” the Iron Bull confirms.

“ _ Yeah? Too bad. Sounds like you at least made it in the front door, _ ” Krem comments before crunching something obnoxious near the phone’s receiver.

“Good bye, Krem,” the Iron Bull says before hanging up pointedly.

“Is your knee alright?” Dorian asks as he comes around and sets a cup of coffee on the low table in front of the couch.

“Yeah, just need a few painkillers,” the Iron Bull assures him. And a few days with his brace back on, but overall it would stop aching if he stopped toting grown men around and climbing stairs to verandas.

Dorian hums his understanding and leaves.

The Iron Bull sips the hot coffee and sighs before taking a larger gulp in spite of the scalding temperature.

Dorian returns with some pain killers and the Iron Bull accepts them, taking them with another swig of coffee. “Thank you for last night,” Dorian says after a few silent moments.

The Iron Bull looks up at him and then sets his coffee down with a shrug. “Thanks for the coffee, it’s fucking delicious.”

Dorian chuckles. “Yes, well if that is equitable to driving me home and putting me to bed, then I’ll have to keep your number on speed dial.”

The Iron Bull’s lips quirk into a crooked smile and he winks at him. “I wouldn’t say no,” he tells him.

Dorian hums and grips his coffee cup with both hands as if it’s the only thing keeping him from doing something—what, the Iron Bull isn’t sure, but he picks his own up and drains it before standing and walking the cup to the sink. “What time do you need to be at the school?” the Iron Bull asks.

Dorian is already dressed and seems to be halfway through his cup of coffee. “Ah… it’s a ten minute drive and I need to be there in fifteen minutes,” he says, setting his cup down and moving toward his bedroom as if he’s forgotten something. He returns with a leather briefcase and shoes on his feet. The Iron Bull is taking a picture of the coffee sitting on the counter so that he can text it to Krem as something they both need in their lives.

The Iron Bull stomps his boots on and laces them up, his knee cracking loudly when he bends. He hears Dorian’s breath whistle through his teeth and smirks a little. “Sounds worse than it is,” he assures him.  _ Usually _ .

Once he’s ready, the Iron Bull grabs his keys and heads out to his truck. He grabs some extra strength pain relief from his glove box and waits for Dorian to get in. 

The Iron Bull follows the familiar roads to the school and then parks where he knows the teachers’ entrance to be. 

“Well, thank you again,” Dorian says. 

“No problem,” the Iron Bull replies. He can taste the awkwardness in the air and revels in it. 

“If you’re ever in town again…” Dorian swallows and shrugs. “You know… I don’t really  _ hate _ you as much as the night before last.”

The Iron Bull grins. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Dorian confirms, beginning to bristle and it takes everything in the Iron Bull’s being not to chase the opening for ribbing that Dorian is giving him.

“Next time I’m in town, I’ll swing by,” he says. 

“Alright,” Dorian undoes the seatbelt and opens the door. “Bring some caramel custard and brandy,” he instructs him before hopping out.

The Iron Bull rolls down the passenger side window. “It’s a date,” he calls after Dorian.

Dorian freezes and turns around with a frown. “It is  _ not _ a date!” he protests in front of at least ten students and two faculty members. 

The Iron Bull winks at him and rolls up just window before he can rescind the invitation. 

  
  
  



End file.
